Count Backwards to 1
by DistrictNineAndThreeQuarters
Summary: A marriage law fic. Post-Battle, lives are just barely beginning to return to normal when a marriage law is passed and odd bracelets are distributed. Partners are assigned and relationships are uprooted. Affairs and abuse and heartbreak. Several pairings and eventual smut.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Oh my Merlin. I haven't even logged on in ages and I am so, so sorry for that. I've been incredibly busy with school and everything else (the junior year of high school is the worst, or so I've been told. It's proving pretty true) BUT WE'RE GOING TO GET SOME FANFIC UP IN THIS BITCH IF IT KILLS ME.

Basically, I got the actual premise of this fic of a post on Tumblr, so credit the blogger on that. Of course, all canon characters, places, and plot belong to JK Rowling. I'm just nicking ideas and writing them.

Basically, it's a marriage law fanfiction, but each character eligible is given a watch that counts down the weeks until they meet their assigned partner, and then…well, it's hard to explain without giving things away. But come on guys, if I could pull off Spirantexcitarent, I'm pretty sure I can manage this.

Not to be cocky or anything.

* * *

**Count Backwards to 1**

_Hermione's POV_

A marriage law, they're calling it. Arthur Weasley rereads the page in The Daily Prophet, his lips moving furiously but silently. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His face has become several shades redder, and an unsettling quiet has fallen over the breakfast table. A marriage law. I didn't even think the Ministry had that kind of authority.

"This can't be legal! There's no bloody way!" Ron exclaims, slamming his fork down on the table.

"Language, Ronald," Molly snaps, setting down her own copy of the newspaper. "Unfortunately it is, in times of crisis, anyway."

"How is this a time of crisis?!" Ginny practically shouts. Her voice is harsh on my eardrums. All I want to do is lie down and sleep for a day or five; I'm so tired of fighting for everyone, and now this?

"We lost a lot of our population in the Battle, Ginny. You know that."

My eyes automatically settle on the photographs of Remus and Tonks sitting on the dirty, cluttered kitchen counter. Lost_._ They hold up Teddy between themselves, the trio of them smiling and bright. Bright but lost.

"It still doesn't give them the right to—"

"It shouldn't, George, but it does," Arthur cuts him off, raising a hand to stop Fred mid-word as well.

"In times of crisis," Harry repeats Molly's words softly. His food looks completely untouched, like he couldn't even bring himself to move it around his plate.

"It says owls will arrive within three days," Arthur interjects. His tone is removed, business-like. "And in anywhere from two weeks' to a month's time, you'll know who your partner is."

"And then at least two kids in three years?!" Ron cries. "What gives them the right?!"

"We can't fix it," I hear myself say. A hollow, resigned voice. "It's Kingsley's law and we can't do anything about it."

The silence falls again, broken only by the occasional clinking of silverware or rustling of newspaper pages. The silence is unsettling, because we all know that in the span of ten minutes, we've given up.

* * *

The bracelets are thin, silver bands with narrow rectangular screen-like surfaces in the middle, almost like watch faces but elongated. They have digital countdowns. Weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. Mine sits on my lap, ticking down my time. 3:4:23:52:28.

"So it counts down your time until you meet your assigned partner. And then it Apparates you to them," Fred says, scanning the note that came with all of our watches. "But apparently you can't see anyone else's clock," he observes as he cranes his neck to try to read George's. He opens his mouth but no words come out. "And apparently you can't tell anyone how much time you have left."

"Can you give vague measurements?" Ginny wonders, frowning. She stares at hers with an expression of such intense disdain, for a moment I fear she's turned into Malfoy.

"Uh…mine says 'soon,'" Ron tries, picking up his bracelet. It dangles from his fingers and he cocks his head, frowning at it as though dirty looks will force his time backward.

"Yeah but what's 'soon'?"

"George, do I look like I know?"

"Exactly."

3:4:23:49:31. Did the Final Battle even end that long ago?

"According to the paper, it Apparates you to Diagon Alley…" Fred says, his voice taking on a tone of curiosity. "Doesn't say why."

"Huh. What if you're not in love with the person? Does it force you to fall in love with them?" Ginny asks, not breaking her angry staring contest with the thin silver chain in front of her.

Fred turns his paper over in his hands, folding and unfolding the crinkled parchment to reveal different quadrants of information. The freckles dotting his hands have been joined by thin lines of greying scars, which I know now cover most of his body. Physically, he's never been quite the same since being nearly crushed to death by a castle wall. But then, who would be?

"This is where magic gets _weird_," Ron says, eyeing his parchment strangely.

George leans back on the couch of the Burrow's living room, putting his socked feet on the table. After the Battle, everyone except Charlie and Bill and Fleur moved back temporarily. It's been seven Weasleys, me, and Harry for about two weeks now. Crowded, but better than going back to empty flats and lonely houses. Post-Battle, the loneliness can be crushing. Too much, too soon, trying to put yourself back together physically and emotionally all at once. It's like trying to push a fallen wall back up on your own; within a few minutes everything will collapse back on you and you'll be crushed. Just ask Fred.

"Care to elaborate?" George prompts, swinging his chain around his finger nonchalantly.

"Basically, you don't fall in love right away," Ron reads off the paper. "But it…like, it…I don't quite understand…something about slowly releasing a love potion…Hermione? Can you explain what all this is?"

I pluck my note from the table and unfold it, searching out the quadrant. "It slowly releases a diluted form of Amortentia…it would make you feel vague feelings of attraction. But they can't force you to fall in love via potion because when a child is conceived under effects of a love potion—"

"You'd get a bunch of mini Voldemorts running around," Harry interrupts.

"Pretty much. So I guess you'd feel sort of attracted to them, not in love. But enough, I suppose," I try. "However they qualify 'enough.'"

Harry sighs heavily, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes. They've been bloodshot constantly; maybe it's crying, maybe it's sleep deprivation, maybe it's a combination of both. Maybe it's Firewhiskey. We've been trying so hard. We can't be left alone but we need to be given space, and suddenly the vices stepped in and it hasn't been pretty. It hasn't been fun.

"It's sorted by blood status," Ginny says abruptly.

"What?" I start folding and unfolding quadrants to find the lines she's reading.

"'In order to decrease the likelihood of Squib or nonmagical offspring, Purebloods will not be allowed to marry Purebloods; Purebloods will marry Halfbloods and Muggleborns. Additionally, Muggleborns _must_ marry Purebloods. Halfbloods are free to marry either Halfbloods or Purebloods.'"

I almost feel relieved then; at least there's a chance of me being paired with a Weasley. Then I'd be with people I consider family, if nothing else. I cross my fingers.

"What?! _What?! _No, no, that can't…no, they can't do that!" George shouts, shooting to his feet. He snatches his paper up. "They can't do that!"

My heart drops into my stomach, leaden with the heaviness of vicarious grief. George has been seeing Angelina Johnson, a Pureblood, since he left Hogwarts midway through his seventh year. My heart drops into my stomach because this is what our world has so rapidly become, the world we all fought so hard for, and there's nothing we can do about it, at least not now, not yet. We fought and suffered and bled for ages and we picked up the salvaged pieces of our world, and this is what we get for our work and our sacrifice.

"It'll be alright, mate," I hear Fred say. He has a hand on George's shoulder, trying to sit him back down. "It's going to be fine, I mean…worse case scenario, we all just spend our three years, have the kids and we're done, right?"

George tangles his fingers in his hair, inadvertently pulling back the overgrown locks meant to cover the gap where his left ear used to be. "I wanted to—"

"Marry her, I know. And you'll get to, just after all of this is over—"

"You don't understand, Fred! I don't want her having some other bloke's kids, it's not…it's not right! It's not fair!" He looks around wildly, his hand unmoving in his hair, his cerulean eyes filled with frantic desperation. We lock eyes for a moment and he flinches, barely perceptible. "I don't want—"

"None of us want this, damn it!" Ron suddenly explodes. "It's not just you—"

"Just because you don't have anyone you're with—"

"You can be so selfish!"

"Are you bloody kidding me?! I _know_ who I want to be with! I already know! You're not with anyone right now, you have no idea—"

"Everybody stop!" Harry suddenly screams, all but leaping to his feet. "Just shut up, both of you! Please…" he adds weakly. "Please."

Ginny looks up at him, brown eyes widened in surprise. But she doesn't speak. Ginny lost her fire somewhere in the Battle; her fierce disposition and endearing snark have faded and she's been…not a husk, but less herself than she should be. Her almost-empty eyes follow Harry.

"It's going to be fine, okay? We'll just…we'll just suffer through three years and be done with it and—"

"Think of it like serving a prison sentence," I offer bleakly. All eyes turn to me. Quiet. "It's unpleasant and awful, but you just bear it and then you're done. That's all."

"That was actually the least hopeful thing I've ever heard you say, Hermione," Harry says quietly. He slowly lowers himself back down to the couch.

"Think of it like more sacrifice, Harry. For the sake of the Wizarding World. Just have the children and serve your three years and…and then you're done."

He stares at me for a long moment, then gives a slight nod. Within a few seconds, Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George have followed suit. Of course they would understand. Of course we can understand sacrifice.

* * *

3:3:14:10:37.

I glance at the clock on Ginny's wall, squinting as my eyes gradually adjust to the dark. It's officially Thursday, four AM and change on Thursday. The days have begun to bleed together slightly, almost like a school holiday. You go to bed one night in the summer and the next, you can't remember whether it's Monday or Saturday. We've devoted the past couple of weeks to just mourning and attempting normality again; futures have been put aside, careers temporarily ignored, further schooling tossed aside. I will not be returning to Hogwarts. Neither will Ginny or Luna; Kingsley has promised that those who fought in the Final Battle will be given clearance to be trained in careers of their choosing.

Sometimes I can hear Ginny's steady breathing, see the outline of her chest rising and falling beneath her messy covers. Other times, she is not in her bed, and I don't know where she goes. She's not with Harry; they're friends, close friends, but neither of them could handle romance on top of mourning. Things fall apart, like they did with me and Ron. I love him like a brother; he loves me like a sister. That's the way things need to be.

I run calculations in my head. It's dark and quiet and I can't sleep because the worry is swirling in my head, but math is a natural soother. Numbers are solid and certain; they don't leave you like people do. You can cling to numbers and they'll never betray you because your answer will always be the same each time; you'll never be caught off guard. I'll meet my partner on a Saturday, at six in the evening. 6:37 and forty seconds. I hope I'm not already busy that day. But then, I have three weeks to rearrange my schedule.

I flip my pillow over, laying my head down and drifting off again. Numbers tick behind my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter updates may become a bit sporadic; I haven't done a whole lot of planning in terms of plot and such, so we'll see where everything goes.

* * *

_**Ginny's POV**_

I am a genius. I charmed my bedroom door's hinges not to creak, and I am a genius because of it.

She's still asleep, good. The clock on my wall reads 5 AM. Specifically, it's 5:10:28. The clock on my wrist reads 2:3:4:19:02. I'm no Hermione, but if I didn't know any better I'd say that I'll be meeting my partner at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning. It seems so mundane, so _normal_. Even the minutes and seconds break even. We could be strangers bumping into each other at work. We could be strangers forced to marry for three years and parent at least two kids. The thought makes me oddly sad more than it makes me wonder. There's nothing particularly exciting about a Tuesday morning.

Hermione is sprawled out on her back, her sleep-mussed hair covering her pillow, her body tangled in her sheets, almost like she's been tossing and turning from some horrific nightmare. But now she's still, and she doesn't so much as stir when I come in. I close the door behind me and slide into my bed, my heart beating out of my chest with the fear that she should wake and discover I've been out. My nighttime departures can only continue until Monday night, then. My covers are cool and relieving as I pull them over myself and lie down. Hermione remains still, and my affair remains clandestine.

* * *

"So Ginny, dear, have you decided what you'd like to do for a career?" Mum asks me as she bustles around the kitchen, scrambling eggs and making sure toast gets seen to plates. Ever since the Battle, meals have gotten larger. Maybe it's because Hermione, Ron, and Harry came back looking emaciated, like the scary skinny models I've seen on the covers of Muggle magazines, with their cheekbones hollow as skeletons and ribs more protuberant than Snape's nose. By the time that war was over, we all looked more dead than alive. Some of us showed it in our bodies, some of us showed it in our personalities, but all of us showed it in our eyes; there will always be something missing.

"Something Quidditch-related, I hoped," I reply, hoping vague answers will give her the hint that I don't feel like discussing it. It works pretty well because, after an odd look of matriarchal concern, she drops the subject and goes back the breakfasts.

The window is streaked with rolling raindrops of spring showers. The midmorning sky is gloomy and overcast, but I love the greys because they remind me of her. Her eyes are the same shade, light, light grey. And her voice is soft and misty like raindrops and she's a far cry from perfect but she's imperfect and that's what makes her perfect. It doesn't have to make sense. She never does.

"Might as well call them down," Mum says, shaking me from my thoughts. "Breakfast's ready."

It's an unusually quiet affair, as all the meals have been since the news was announced. There's an odd sense of foreboding. Since we don't know when each other's clocks are due to hit 0:0:0:0:1, at which time you Apparate, arriving exactly when every number hits 0, we've been staring around the table, waiting for someone to disappear in a blur of contortion. It seems too soon for that to happen though. I just sit, not feeling like eating and knowing Mum won't force me, and study seven pairs of scarred hands that weren't quite as scarred a few weeks ago.

* * *

A simple Alohomora grants me entrance into the rook-shaped house. I tip-toe past the shut door of the small guest room where Neville sleeps, not wanting to return to his grandmother's. He knows I'm here, night after night, early into the morning; I just don't want to wake him.

It's not getting into the house that proves challenging, it's navigating it. It's pitch black, and something prevents Lumos from fully working, like particles of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder linger in the air. I drag my right hand along the wall, mentally noting doorframes or oddly shaped picture frames, stumbling periodically on a miscellaneous textbook or random cauldron filled with glowing, steamy Merlin-knows-what. The house is like her—it's easy enough to get into, but once you're there you don't know what to make of it. And some people like it and others hate it, and some are scared by it.

At Hogwarts, under Snape's regime, we started spending more and more time together. She's an acquired taste, but I got used to her. I grew to like her, if not understand her. And together, we got worse and worse. I saw the light fading from her eyes a little more everyday and slowly she was less and less nonsensical and I was weaker and quieter and had so little reason to keep going. That's how we know we weren't in love with each other, because we weren't seeing each other for real. We were seeing weakened, diluted versions. I don't know what happened. If I fell in love with her or just the company. I don't want to let her go.

Her whole room gives off an eerie, pale blue glow, no doubt from some concoction she's been working on. The pictures are still up, huge photographs of me, Neville, Harry, Ron, and Hermione linked together by the golden "friends" chains. Friendship is, after all, a chain that links us together, for better or for worse. I almost feel hopeful then—we'll get through this together. Maybe. Hopefully. I close the bedroom door behind myself, sealing it with locking and silencing charms. She stirs at the barely audible sound of my voice; she's an incredibly light sleeper.

"Ginny?" she mumbles, sitting up slowly. Her hair cascades around her like a wavy, platinum blonde waterfall. "Ginny."

"Hey, Luna," I say quietly, crossing the room to sit next to her.

"It doesn't let us say our countdowns," she tells me sleepily. I notice the silver chain and watch-face sitting on her wrist. I can't see the numbers.

"I know. I tried."

"I'm really tired," she says through a small yawn. I can see the sleep in her eyes, but nothing else. No mysticism, no sense of wonder or enlightenment. She is not a child anymore; that is the price of battle.

She scoots over and lies back down, and I follow suit, slipping under the light blue blankets. Sometimes a rendezvous will be all fire and passion and wild desperation, sometimes it'll be all softness and emotion and sad emptiness. Sometimes it'll be just sleeping together in the most innocent sense, and quiet fearfulness. Our little affair has been going on almost nightly since a few nights after the Battle, but even before the law was announced, we had known that we'd likely be driven apart. It wasn't—isn't—a love affair. It's just a friendship infused with a desperate need for comfort. A friendship with lesbian hedonism on the side. Well, lesbian on my part, bisexual on hers. I love Harry, yes, but I came to realise I'm not _in_ love with him, that it's just impossible for me to be, that I can't see him or any other man that way.

"_Guys, I…I have something I want to tell you," I said, my voice shaking like an earthquake. I stood up, immediately fearing my legs would give in, and coughed awkwardly, hoping to get everyone's attention. I was at the lunch table with everyone but Mum and Dad (and Percy; he still hasn't returned home)—even Charlie, Bill, and Fleur had temporarily returned to visit, but I wasn't ready to tell my parents just yet, so I waited for them to busy themselves with some other, out-of-earshot task._

"_Hey, settle down, guys!" Hermione urged. "Ginny wants to say something." She clinked her fork against her glass a couple times, until all eyes were on her, and then she directed them towards me and I felt the heat rush to my ears. _

"_Well, I don't really _want_ to," I laughed anxiously, putting my hands on the table to steady myself._

"_Go on, Gin," Harry encouraged me. For a fleeting moment I wondered if he already knew._

"_Well, um…the thing is, I…Merlin…it's so much harder than I thought it would be—"_

"_Sounds like my first time," Charlie snickered, pulling grins from the men at the table. Fleur and Hermione exchanged looks that were mixed exasperation and hidden amusement. They had really come to bond rapidly post-Battle. "Sorry, Gin; couldn't resist."_

_"That's alright. I…okay, excuse me, I feel ill. Alright. I'm…I'm lesbian," I finally said, rushing the last two words in an attempt to just get everything over with._

"_That explains a lot," Harry said, smiling broadly. I laughed, relieved that I had at least one person on my side._

"_Maybe it was growing up with six brothers," Bill suggested, smiling as well. _

"_Or maybe it was your fault, Harry," Ron chimed in, ignoring the look Harry shot him in response._

"_It's no one's _fault_—" _

"_Relax, Hermione, we're kidding," Bill assured her, putting his hands up as though she was about to shoot him a Killing Curse._

_Relief rolled over me in waves and I lowered myself back to my seat, returning to my dinner._

"_Are you going to tell Mum and Dad?" Ron asked between mouthfuls of food._

"_Eventually."_

"_We won't out you, Gin, but you really should tell them at some point," Fred said._

_"You're their daughter; I'm sure they'll support you," George seconded._

_I nodded, promising that I would tell Mum and Dad some point in the not-too-distant future._

"_I mean, really, after a Battle like that—" Fred started._

"_Which was partially influenced by hatred over blood status—" George continued._

"_Why would she ever think to hate her own daughter—"_

"_Over a part of herself—"_

"_That she didn't choose to be?" they finished together._

_A long moment of stunned silence ensued. The twins looked confused._

"_We're all behind you, Ginny. We support you," Hermione finally said, with a nod toward me then one toward the twins._

"I just don't want it to be one of those nights," Luna says as she curls up against me. "Not tonight."

"I know. I'm perfectly fine with this," I assure her, absentmindedly running a hand through her hair. The numbers just keep ticking down, down, down. Second by second, getting closer to that Tuesday morning.

There's no sex, no speech, nothing but sleep. And this is how things would be if the law was never passed. And maybe this is how things will be in three years, when the law is over. We all need something to hope for.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Side note, I have no idea what Angelina Johnson's actual blood status is. Work with me here. In fact, I might be fucking around with a lot of blood statuses in this little fic. I apologise in advance. At least I'm not doing…I don't know, distasteful character ret con or something awful like that. Coughmyimmortalcough.

* * *

_George's POV_

When I first saw her, in our first year, I believe, the first thing I was captivated by was just how _dark_ she was. Not long ago, Hermione explained the concept of racism to me, explaining that it was something that used to be a huge problem in the Muggle world, and that it still is in some areas. I must've asked the poor girl a hundred questions; I just couldn't understand it. The same way I don't understand why wizards hate Muggles or Muggleborns. There's nothing _wrong_ with them. Same thing with gay people; they didn't choose to be gay, and even if they did, there's still nothing wrong with that. Gin is still Gin whether she marries a Harry or a Harriet.

But Angelina was just so fascinatingly, beautifully _dark_—sleek, pitch black hair, eyes so deep brown I could hardly see her pupils, skin the same colour as dark chocolate. I had seen plenty black wizards before, sure, but there was something different about her. She was so mysterious in her darkness, so visually appealing.

I almost killed Fred when he asked her to the Yule Ball. But I backed off, because I knew that he didn't know I fancied her. And I'm pretty sure it's against the bro code to murder your own twin. But I digress.

"_George?" I heard her melodic voice somewhere behind me and my heart skipped a beat. I turned and there she was, alone in her deep purple Yule Ball robes—alone! Not hanging off Fred's arm, just on her own._

"_Wait…what? I don't…"_

_She sat next to me on the plush common room couch and slipped off her silver flats; Fred and I had inherited the stocky Weasley genes, but at about 175 centimetres (between 5'9" and 5'10") we usually didn't have _too _much issue with girls' heights, but Angie was taller than most and wearing heels would have made her slightly taller than Fred. Her toes were painted a bright pink. I don't know why I noticed that. _

"_I don't know; the date with Fred wasn't really working out," she said, shrugging nonchalantly. She didn't seem upset or fazed at all._

"_Is he alright?" I asked immediately. No matter how much I liked a bird, Fred would always come first._

"_Oh, yeah, he's fine. Mutual," she assured me._

"_So you came to seek his better—much better—half instead?" I grinned at her cheekily. I was, after all, still in my Yule Ball robes, dashing as hell…but I'm always dashing as hell anyway, even when I'm wearing the secondhand robes I got from Charlie. I put my feet up (I had taken my shoes off earlier) on her lap and sprawled myself out on the couch._

"_Actually, about that…you see, you and Fred _are_ different people, even if not extremely so…"_

"_Of course."_

_That was one of the things I loved about Angie; she could tell the difference between us. She knew that just because we were identical twins didn't mean we were identical people. She afforded us individuality without pulling us apart. I love Fred to pieces and it would kill me to part with him. I love him, but I'm not him, and Angie was one of the rare ones who always understood that._

"_As much as I love Fred, I prefer you in terms of romantic love," she said plainly after a moment of consideration. Very straightforward, blunt, Gryffindorish. "I don't know if you feel the same way—"_

_"Of course I feel the same way, Angie. Angelina," I corrected. I felt it more appropriate to use her full name, so she would know I wasn't taking it lightly._

"_Would you like to go back down to the dance?"  
_

"_Can we stay here?"_

_A long pause. Her lips, with a glossy glaze, curved into a smile. "Sure, George."_

"It's going to be okay, George, I promise," she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I promise, really."

It's Thursday night, 10:32:17. 3:0:11:20:12. Which means…I fall silent as I stare at the watch-face, crunching numbers frantically in my head.

A Thursday three weeks from now, sometime past nine in the morning. I can't be bothered with minutes and seconds.

"I don't want you to have some other bloke's kids, Angie," I confess miserably. Her fingers run through my hair softly, sometimes tracing over the spot where my ear used to be. She's never shown a hint of disgust at that.

"I don't want to have some other bloke's kids," she says, both sadness and distaste mingling in her voice. "In fact, I don't really even want to have your kids," she adds teasingly.

"They would be a nightmare to raise, I'll give you that," I grin.

We smile, then fall silent again. After a moment, she sits on my lap and I just hold her there, like I used to when we started dating a couple weeks after the Yule Ball. It reminds me of the nights before Fred and I dropped out, except worse. This is for three years, not a few months.

"Angie…will you marry me after this is all over?"

"Of course. Of course."

No hysteria, no tears of joy. No tears of any kind, actually. I guess that's good, though. Just a small promise. Something to look forward to. She rustles in my lap and leans in, pressing her lips to mine. A subdued kiss; neither of us has the energy for this, we're so drained from everything.

"You _could_ get a room," Fred interrupts as he opens the door. He grins cockily and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. They're muscular and freckly, now decorated with a whole collection of new scars crisscrossing over his skin.

"This _is_ a room," I remind him pointedly. "My room, in fact."

"_Our_ room, you prat," he grins. "But Angie can stay."

Angie laughs and threatens to punch him, but stays on my lap, shifting slightly.

"But really, locking charms—"

"We weren't _doing_ anything—" Angie protests, still laughing.

"Bloody better not've been! This is my room!"

"_Our_ room, you prat."

"I hate you both."

"Love you too, Freddie," I reply. Angie sticks her tongue out at him.

* * *

It's been a week. Almost exactly a week. A week of nightly encounters with Angie, a week of miserable daytimes, a week of consoling everybody. Times are closing in on us. The suspense is reaching deadly levels. I am a mess, a mess with a watch, but it feels like a time bomb is resting on my wrist.

* * *

_Fred's POV_

"They won't let you petition for a new partner?" Hermione repeats Dad, her words deliberate and enunciated and tinged with disbelief.

Dad shakes his head solemnly. A copy of _The Daily Prophet_ sits crumpled by his side and the wrinkles in his face are now more like deep grooves. "Apparently not. And even if they did, the Ministry is absolutely inundated with tasks right now. It would take ages, wouldn't exactly be high priority."

I cough loudly to get their attention, then lean against the doorframe of my own living room and wait for them to finish up. Hermione turns, and I notice the way her frizzy hair seems to bounce along with her movements. She looks at me apologetically. "I—I'm sorry, Fred, I didn't mean to commandeer your flat like this—"

"Quite alright, love, don't worry about it. Hey, Dad."

"Did you just—" Hermione stops herself short and I cock my head to the side, feigning ignorance. Shaking her head, she returns to her conversation, her tone reverting right back to how it was before. "Do they make any exceptions? Extreme incompatibility, abuse—"

Dad shrugs. "I don't know, but I don't think so."

"That's—"

"Abhorrent, unethical, unconscionable; I'm well aware. But I doubt you'll have too much issue. You're Muggle born, so you'll likely be with a Pureblood, but perhaps a Halfblood. It's quite likely you'll end up paired with a Weasley, actually," Dad tells her, smiling for a brief moment.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, but I can tell she's not completely put off by the idea. For one brief, crazed moment I wonder if she envisioned one of us—"There are worse things," I hear her say. I shake my head to clear it of my misguided thoughts. The fringe of my shaggy hair obscures my eyes. I'd get a haircut but that would mean Mom wins. Dad laughs in response to Hermione. "Molly wants to Floo a relative, but I'll drop by or call if there are any new developments."

"Okay. Goodbye, Mr. Weasley."

"Goodbye, Hermione."

The flames flicker, fading from green back to red then dying down to warm embers as Hermione pushes herself to her feet with a seemingly painstaking effort. The light from her watch flashes in my eye and I wish desperately that I could tell her when my clock will end, that I could tell her all the things I'm so afraid of, for myself and her and everyone else. But she turns away from me and any hope of catching sight of her numbers is gone.

"Can I stay here the night?" she requests suddenly. Automatically, I can feel my eyes widen slightly in surprise at such an unexpected question. "I really don't feel like going back to the Burrow," she explains, rather hastily. I can practically feel the exhaustion rolling off her in waves.

"Yeah, of course. Anytime."

She nods gratefully and Floos away, presumably to get an overnight bag. Her bottomless brown eyes are so awfully tired, worse than I've ever seen them before.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm doing some fairly major time-skipping, mainly because I'm really bad at keeping track of all these goddamn dates. I don't know what in Merlin's name convinced me I could actually keep track of times down to the second—in any case, it doesn't matter.

So, rather than drag out each characters' partner-meeting, I'm going to have some of the major ones' POVs for both the last night and the meeting. I don't really want to write segments for all the majors; I feel like it's not really necessary. Maybe if it's requested I'll do a chapter or something, but eh. Minor characters I'll just…I'll see. But this'll be Ginny and then Hermione; Fred in the next chapter.

* * *

_**Ginny's POV**_

"Soon," I say as soon as I rouse her awake. "Very, very, very soon." The words I'm looking for are _tomorrow morning_, but they stick in my throat because of the wristband. I am not allowed to tell her, and she is not allowed to guess. "Very, very, very, very, very soon."

She nods, understanding. "Ginny…"

"I don't know how I'm going to do this, Luna."

"What exactly?"

"Marry. Have kids. Have sex with a man."

I see the almost-grin flicker across her waiflike face. "Close your eyes and think of England."

"It's not funny," I protest, but I smile because it almost is. "Please."

She shifts her wavy mass of hair into a loose bun, keeping it out of the way, and motions for me to join her under the covers. There's something different in the atmosphere, something almost tense, like how it was the first time. Fear, but nondescript, undirected fear. Desperation, but that's always there.

Her body is small, slightly pronounced curves. Not quite an hourglass like mine, but not starved like Hermione's. Small breasts, narrow hips, slim waist. Pale skin and light eyes; light, sad, lost eyes. I didn't corrupt her first; war did. I just stepped in after to finish the job. She's not too loony anymore. I don't think she has the innocence for it.

She pulls the elastic out of my hair, letting my hair fall just past my shoulders, pulling my shoulders down and forcing our lips to meet. Our movements aren't as passionate as they usually are, not as desperate. We're here because we feel we should be, like we owe something to each other. Neville sleeps deeply a few doors down; the Silver Trio is almost, almost reunited.

I move downwards, my hands tracing over her subtle curves. Our eyes meet and I know she understands. That she's not in debt to me in any way. That this isn't the last time. That this is merely a break, not the end. I taste her, the taste that is uniquely her, everything that is uniquely her. Desperate. Reverent. This is just a break, I tell myself. Just a three-year break.

_Tuesday, 9:30 AM, Diagon Alley _

I close my eyes and get whisked away by the bracelet. 0:0:0:0:1. One second.

0:0:0:0:0. I collapse on the cobblestone alley in an ungraceful heap. I scramble to my feet, surprised at how not nervous I am. I'm just resigned to my fate at this point. It's three years, I tell myself. Just three years and two kids. I've been through worse. I'm strong, but sometimes it's better to just endure than to fight.

I make my way through the parting crowd, going about their daily grinds. The bracelet seems to pull me toward my assigned partner and my eyes search out familiar faces. And then I see him, walking toward me. Untamed, jet black hair. Round, wire glasses with bright emerald eyes.

"Harry!" I cry out. I'm almost relieved. It's not ideal but my Merlin, it could be so much worse. The waves of relief wash over my body and I run into his arms, nearly knocking him over. He's not a lover, only a friend. But even that is so much more than I could have ever hoped for.

* * *

_**Hermione's POV**_

I toss and turn in my bed. Ginny has already been paired off with Harry, an incredible relief to all of us. At least she's with someone we know and trust and love. She's going to be okay. She's asleep in the bed next to mine; we're not having honeymoons or whatever until everyone's clock counts down. I'm tempted to rouse her out of her slumber to force her to comfort me, to still the panicked beating of my anxious heart, but I restrain myself. She deserves her sleep.

The air is warm and stagnant, comfortable, but I feel overheated and flushed with horrible nervousness. My mind races with persistent what ifs. And then—

All the thoughts collide and shatter and something even more pressing hits me like a ton of bricks. I'm a virgin. I have never had sex. I do not want to lose my virginity to a man I might not like or even know. No. I cannot allow this to happen. My mind settles on the best, most trusted option and I slip out of bed, creeping into the hall with my wand in hand and Apparating away as quietly as possible.

_Saturday, 6:37 PM, Diagon Alley_

My chest feels horribly compressed by the Apparation. I gulp air into my lungs frantically as I stumble into Diagon Alley, my eyes wildly searching the crowd. Maybe I'll get lucky and be paired with Ron. At least Ron would never do anything to harm me in any way intentionally. My heart beats faster and faster and I feel like I'm going to faint right there in the Alley. I feel like I'm going to be sick, like I'm going to die of the suffocating panic. I've never been so afraid in my entire life. But I straighten myself out, swallowing my heartbeat as it thumps violently in my chest and my throat and everywhere. I put on a brave face as I move where the bracelet pulls me. Toward a pair of cold silver eyes on an aristocratic face framed by silvery blonde hair. The Ministry has not taken mercy on me.

"Malfoy."

"Mudblood."

* * *

A/N: I'm really sorry I didn't write any actual smut for Ginny and Luna. I've never written smut before, but I'm planning on it for the next chapter. I will take all the con crit I can get for it. I will be writing smut for our lesbian couple at some point, but I just didn't want to at this point.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Two chapters in one day; I am so awesome holy shit okay

Fair warning: there is smut in this chapter. It is my first time writing smut. Don't flame me. It is Fremione smut. This is not a Fremione fic, or at least not primarily a Fremione fic. You'll see. Also, it's not smut for the sake of being really sexy and pornographic, it's smut for the sake of being a plot point. Sorry. There'll be better stuff later on.

* * *

_**Fred's POV**_

George has already been paired off. He's with Katie, and we're waiting on Angelina's partner. It could be worse. Way worse. He's a mess though, and for the first time in ages he refuses to let me comfort him. He's in his room of our flat, trying to sleep. I don't know what to do with him anymore. I figure I'll let the dust settle and we'll just…we'll just see. We'll just wait for this to all be over.

It's 1:32 on Saturday morning. My clock will end on Monday, at thirty-four minutes and nineteen seconds past noon. A cauldron of random ingredients that will result in either a new product or a fatal explosion boils and bubbles on my cluttered desk. For some reason, sleep won't come. I'm lying in bed, out of sleeping potions, and nothing. My mind keeps racing, like it thinks something important is about to happen. And then, out of nowhere, my bedroom door opens and closes. I see the silhouette of a figure before everything is plunged into darkness again. Then the room is lit by the figure's wand and—

"Hermione?! What are you doing in here?"

She turns, casting Silencing and Locking Charms before walking toward me and sitting on my bed. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face tearstained and her hair curly and wild. Awkwardly, I rest a hand on her thin shoulder, unsure of what to do or what's wrong or why she's even here. Not that she's unwelcome or anything, just…I've never been good around emotional women. She sniffles and then finally speaks.

"Fred…I…look, very, very, very soon I am going to be thrown into a union with an unknown man."

"I haven't been unconscious for the past month, you know."

She smiles, very slightly. "This is very awkward, but I…look, you'll have to hear me out. I'm…I'm a virgin, and I—"

I can feel my eyes widen and she looks away, obviously embarrassed. A cloud of blush explodes across her cheeks. I stutter, searching for words until I can force a semi-coherent sentence from my gaping lips. "Hermione, are you…are you sure you want _me?_ Of all people—"

"I trust you."

I stare at her, her endlessly deep brown eyes. "If you're sure."

She nods, suddenly confident in our eye contact. "I'm sure."

"Do you want me to ah…like, turn the lights off or like…I don't know what you want here…" I try awkwardly.

She waves her wand and room is dark again, a comfortable darkness. I push the blankets aside and wonder why I'm agreeing to sleep with my friend, a close friend, an almost sisterly friend. The whole situation is so abrupt and unexpected and frivolous, I almost want to laugh but I can't, not when I'm about to take Hermione's virginity. Suddenly I'm worried. I don't want to hurt her or make her regret anything.

But then…she's not like a sister to me. She's a brilliant, fiery woman with wild hair and a library crammed into her head. A woman who never got the chance to truly be a girl. A war heroine. A beautiful, strong, know-it-all war heroine with…with surprisingly firm breasts, apparently.

Her small hands trail nervously over my legs; I can tell she's going to be a timid virgin. No matter, I can do this without completely breaking her. I hope. I help her undress, undoing the clasp of her bra and tugging ineffectively at the waistband of her pyjama bottoms; she offers me little aid. Her hands roam my chest, tracing mindless circles over my torso. Almost like she's stalling for time.

"You don't have to do this to yourself," I say sincerely.

She shakes her head, sniffling a bit. "It's better this way."

But is it really? I want to stop her, send her back to her own bed and tell her she's not ready, or at least that it shouldn't be me. But then, there's always the chance…my heart leaps. There's always the chance, however slight, that we'll end up together. Her clock must be ending soon if she's here; maybe our countdowns are the same? I almost ask and then I remember that she wouldn't be able to tell me.

She leans down toward me and my eyes adjust to see the shadowy outlines of her face, just starting to fill out again. She came home from her hunt with hollowed cheeks and haunted eyes, and everything felt surreal and empty. No victory could put everything right again. I feel her soft, quick breaths just above my lips. She smells of peppermint and very faintly of ink; she chews her quills as she writes her endless documents. I've never kissed her before; I've never had a reason to. Not that I haven't thought about it, if nothing else it was idle curiosity. Her hands flatten against my chest and I cup her face in my palms, gently because she seems so incredibly fragile. Our first kiss is chaste and soft with the taste of mint from her waxy chapstick and salt lingering from her tears.

Our second kiss consumes with fiery desperation, and this is the result of every unspoken word that built up our friendship from the moment I woke up between her and George, bleeding and bandaged and half-dead beneath a castle wall, woke up to George in hysterics and her shouting frantic incantations. All of her fears and my anger and everything that's horribly wrong with this marriage law and this Ministry, it all gets turned inward and then collapses and we explode into this—into _this._ This tangling mess of limbs and blindsiding lust; when did she go from being Ron's swotty friend to being Hermione?

Her fingers trace the raised, grey scars on my chest and arms, in various stages of healing. And then finally, she moves off me and I hear the rustle of clothing. My mind reels. I am about to be Hermione's first. Yes, maybe she screwed up a lot of my experiments on first years; maybe she spent a lot of her time as a prefect confiscating joke products from me and George. But she is my bed. She is in my bed, naked. She is in my bed, naked, and my immature twenty-year-old mind is too full of hormones to process anything else. Fuck it; I'll worry about consequences in the morning. After I make her breakfast so I don't look like a bloody tosser.

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" she asks abruptly.

"Be a Gryffindor about it," I joke, running my hands over her body. Her skin is soft, but I can feel ribs and hip bones jutting out. Mum would throw a fit if she realised how thin Hermione really was when she isn't hiding it under the jumpers she nicks from Harry and Ron. I don't want to push her along too fast, but I'm also not particularly enjoying trying to hold out. "Er…Hermione? Whenever you're ready."

She inhales deeply and says, in a shaky voice, "Now. Now is fine."

I nod and, steeling myself, gradually ease myself into her, inch by inch, until I feel her rip around me and she cries out. I swallow, steeling myself and staying completely still. It's the most difficult ten seconds of my life. But I've done this before, I remind myself. So I grit my teeth until she finally chokes out a "go."

"How bad is it?" I whisper as I start to move, a gentle rocking so she can adjust. Her eyes glint and gleam in the darkness, and I can see the pronounced parts of her face. The hollow cheekbones, small nose, lips pressed in a thin line.

"It's fading," she tells me softly. So I keep a steady pace until she rocks her hips against mine and soft little moans escape her lips and I know it's okay to speed up, even though she probably won't come no matter how long I hold off. I want her to, but no amount of determination is likely to make it happen. I'll just have to be as gentle as possible with her.

Her hands roam over me, skin against skin, and my fingers almost instinctively seek out her clit; I do what I can. "Fred…Fred I don't think it's going to happen…" she whimpers, as though reading my thoughts. My fingers tweak her nipples, but apparently it's just not going to happen this time.

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's not you. Most girls don't—"

I cut her off, fusing my mouth to hers with some deeply buried passion and I pray I'm not hurting her as my body starts with its spasms, some encompassing wave of pleasure, all the minutes built up to a minute of climax when the world turns into stars glittering behind my eyes. I only wish I could make it happen for her.

When I wake the next morning, she's still next to me.

I think it's the small things that matter.

"They've changed the rules, the disorganised idiots!" Harry groans, popping into the room. Hermione sits up, startled, and yanks the sheets over her chest.

"Hermione?!"

She groans. "Hi, Harry. Nice of you to drop by."

"What even—"

"When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much—"

"Fred!"

"When a crazy mommy slips a love potion into an unsuspecting daddy's drink—"

"Enough! What is it, Harry?" she prompts, staring daggers at me.

"They've started revising remaining pairings," he says. "The ones that have already met are stuck together, but apparently they're discarding the blood status restraints for the remaining unpaired. Also, a lot of people have relocated, so they might not have an even enough ratio to make everything work. It probably has something to do with who's left over."

"Wait, who's gone? Are people seriously leaving English jurisdiction because of this?"

"Well, yeah," Harry replies. There's a certain hesitance in his response, like he's surprised Hermione wouldn't think people would leave a country over a law that's unfair and invasive. "Lavender is gone, so are Seamus and Dean; those three went to Ireland. Hm...Alicia Spinnet, Tracey Davis, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, Theodore Nott, I had heard they left jurisdiction. A lot of others, too. I mean, it's not like there was a mass exodus or anything, but we did lose quite a few people. At this point the Ministry can't really afford to be as picky about who goes with who."

"But…but where did they all _go?"_ I stammer. "And do they plan on coming back?"

Harry shrugs. "I'm assuming they will eventually. I mean, it's three years. Maybe they'll come back afterwards? I'm sure they're all communicating, connections and all."

"So can George switch to be with Angelina?"

Harry shakes his head sadly. "No. Maybe he can petition, but like Mr. Weasley said—"

"Yeah, I know, not a high priority, etc etc."

"Honestly I think it's rather cowardly of them," Hermione interjects disapprovingly. "I mean, I understand, but I don't think it's the right decision. I'm sure we can all get through it. It's only three years."

Harry shrugs again. I can see the desire for neutrality in his face, etched in the lines and scars on his skin. "I don't know. It doesn't really matter, honestly. If they can save themselves, then props to them, I guess. I'm, ah, going to go now…and uh…leave you guys to it." His voice is clumsy and awkward, but he shoots me a wink as he shuts the door behind himself.

_Monday, 12:34 PM, Diagon Alley_

I tried to comfort her. I really did. I tried so hard, but some part of me has just accepted that they broke her. The pairing broke her, and Malfoy is going to ruin her. I would give anything to switch with him, but I can't think of how to manipulate the Ministry.

And now I'm in Diagon Alley, searching for a familiar face. Or maybe an unfamiliar face. I guess we'll see.

And I'm the unlucky one: a stranger, or as good as. I know who she is, of course, but it's very much out of left field. She comes up to me with a look of befuddlement on her face. "Um…Fred?"

"Er, hi, Cho," I greet her. We pause awkwardly until we decide on a handshake, as though this was a business agreement. "This is…unexpected."

Anticlimactic, too, to be honest. She shrugs at me, but her face maintains the same expression of bewildered confusion.

"Well, I um...my family's waiting for everyone to be paired off before we all take care of paperwork. We have, what, another week to sign everything off?"

She nods in confirmation and opens her mouth as though she has something to add, but decides against whatever it is. "So, I suppose we can arrange to meet in a week or so?" she finally asks.

"Yeah, that should be fine. I'll owl."

She nods and we go our separate ways. This should be…interesting, I suppose.

A/N: I know, I know, it's a weird pairing. I don't even. I don't really know or care about Cho's blood status either, but then I changed details to make it not matter anymore because I didn't plan too far in advance and I was running out of characters to make everything work so then that happened and I'm sorry I didn't mean to be bad at what I do

In any case, there will be more smut as the story progresses (yay?) Like I said, I'm very new to writing smut so please give me advice or I won't get much better.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: And now for a rundown of the marriage pairings:

Draco/Hermione

Ron/Luna

Harry/Ginny

George/Katie

Fred/Cho (do people even ship this like actually)

* * *

_**Ginny's POV**_

I am in my living room, sharing an armchair with Hermione. My armrest is being occupied by Harry. There are twenty-four bloody people in this room. The house is more crowded now than it was when Bill and Fleur were getting married. Speaking of Bill and Fleur, they've come to visit. They're sitting on a love seat with Gabrielle between them. As much as I've come to like Gabby, I can't stand to look at her right now. She makes me think of the two children I'll be forced to bear for the Ministry. Suddenly I feel a wave of nausea.

I hear muffled discussion coming from the next room; it's Mum and Dad. I close my eyes and listen to the soft side conversations around the room. Hermione is talking to Percy and his girlfriend Audrey (Percy moved to Wales after the Battle, so they're not affected by the laws.) Charlie and his girlfriend Isabelle, a cheery brunette with bright blue eyes and a Romanian accent, are getting to know Xenophilius and Luna. Cho and her stern, strict looking mother are having an animated conversation with Bill and Fleur. Stoic and aristocratic, Draco and Lucius remain perfectly silent and disgustingly pompous and superior. I want to strangle them both.

There are strange looks going around. Every time Hermione and Fred's eyes meet, they look concerned or embarrassed and they look away quickly. George looks sick from anxiety. Angelina was paired with Blaise Zabini, the duplicitous Slytherin scum.

"Sorry about the delays," Mum says as she reenters the packed room, levitating trays of food, though I doubt anyone really feels like eating.

"No trouble at all, Mrs. Weasley," Audrey pipes up for the rest of us, when no one is sure who should speak.

Mum smiles graciously. She's forgiven Percy, as have the twins, Bill, Charlie, Hermione, Harry, and Dad. Ron and I are holding back, unsure. For now, we remain cordial.

"Let's make this quick," a cold voice pipes up from a removed corner of the room. "I have better things to do than waste my time in this blood traitor hovel."

"Excuse me, Lucius," Hermione starts, her voice sharp and harsh. "But as I recall, my friends and I are responsible for your son's survival through the Final Battle. If you're enjoying Draco's continuous existence, then perhaps you ought to shut up before I decide to put an end to it."

Most of the room is choking back sniggers, attempting not to foment further instigation. Charlie, Isabelle, Bill and Fleur clap for a few seconds before halting abruptly. As if on cue, Audrey, who's also Muggleborn, and I give loud "Amen, sister!"s. Hermione smiles gratefully and averts her eyes, blushing slightly, obviously pleased with herself.

"We will not be spoken to in such a way by mudblood filth like you!" Lucius shouts back furiously. "If you are to be in a union with my son you will treat us both with respect—"

"It isn't as though I _chose_ to marry him!" Hermione retorts, rising to her feet. "And I demand respect as well! You are a guest in this house, and you're lucky we had the decency to let you in after all you've put us through!"

Dad jumps to his feet and cuts off Lucius's response before it can be said. For a long, tense moment, they stare at each other until finally, Lucius reluctantly sits again. Hermione and Draco are engaged in the most spiteful, vengeful staring contest of pure and utter rage I've ever seen. I fear one of them might spontaneously combust.

"Right, well, I thought it would be a good idea to gather the pairs and their guardians so we can all make sure we're on the same page here. We still have two days to sign the marriage contracts that we've all been owled and send them back to the Ministry for filing and whatnot.

"So, I want to make sure we're all clear on ceremonies, should we chose to have them, and the rules of the marriages, as well as where each couple plans to move for the duration of their union. We'll start with…why don't we start with the twins. George?"

"We figured we would just stay in the flat above the shop. It'll be fine to accommodate Fred and Cho as well," George tells him. Katie nods, and her dad, her magical parent, seems to be fine with it.

"So that's both of you, then?" Dad asks the twins. They nod in response. "Cho, you're okay with that? At least for the time being?"

"Right." Cho's mum confirms as well.

"Moving on. Ginny and Harry?"

"Well, I do technically have a house. Number 12," Harry says.

"You know how big it is, Dad. We could definitely have Ron and Luna and Hermione and Draco—" I start.

"Absolutely not!" Lucius interjects indignantly. "No son of mine will take up residence in some filthy mudblood hideout! However, I am kind enough to give the mudblood and Draco the Manor. Narcissa and I were planning on moving out to Bellatrix's old place anyway."

"On no terms will I be returning to the Manor," Hermione replies with cold dignity. "I refuse."

"I'm afraid we aren't giving you any option," Lucius smirks. I feel horribly sick to my stomach. "It states very clearly in the Ministry's rules that the couples must live together—"

"Great, Draco can take up space in Number 12, then," Hermione interrupts.

"He most certainly will not," Lucius reiterates. "We can bring this matter to the Ministry, but they're far more likely to place you in the Manor, seeing as Number 12 already has two couples inhabiting it. You will reside at the Manor, or you can talk to the Ministry about terminating a contract, which would involve you either relinquishing your right to perform magic in England, or relocating outside the Ministry's jurisdiction."

Hermione's stare turns icy again, but she refuses to let the defeat creep into her voice. "I will not flee my nation because of your disgusting, two-faced, lying, cheating slimeball offspring. I will never be a true Malfoy, because _I am not a coward_," she hisses angrily. The room falls completely silent, and I am frozen in shock. The Battle has turned her from quietly courageous Hermione to bold, undeterred Hermione.

"Right, well…ceremonies?" Dad prompts.

After a moment of chillingly awkward silence, the general consensus seems to be no ceremonies. Just sign the papers and be done with it. A mandatory business deal. I can't help the shiver of terror that runs down my spine as I watch Hermione sign her marriage contract with a trembling hand, her whole body quaking with repressed fury. We agree to be moved into our respective houses in two days' time.

Hermione is white as snow and shaking when the Malfoys finally depart, not a moment too soon. The numbers dwindle down. Katie and her dad leave, then Cho and her mum, Luna and Xenophilius, Percy and Audrey. Charlie and Isabelle head out to the lake outside. Bill and Fleur and Gabrielle go back to Shell Cottage. And suddenly it's just me and Hermione and the twins left in a cold and quiet room. For some reason, I don't question it when Fred takes Hermione into his arms, holding her there until, after some indeterminable amount of time, she stops crying and her eyes are dark and bloodshot, rimmed with tears, but I don't know how to help anymore. I want her to go back to being the strong, undefeatable Hermione she was before. But she's so broken and I don't know how to fix her.

* * *

_**Hermione's POV**_

The Manor is just as intimidating and imposing as I remember it. It's chilling, all dark stone and trauma. I jump every few feet, expecting some malicious apparition to attack. I wage a mental war against the flashbacks. I will not let him see me break.

But Merlin…the air is frigid and uninviting; the corridors are dully lit with intermittent torches, their flames flickering and throwing shadows to and fro over the grey walls. The portraits of purebloods watch me, worse than Number 12, disapproving, angry, hateful. Their stormy eyes follow me and I trail behind Draco, fighting my memories. Everything is dark and suffocating, closing in on me. I draw myself up to stand taller, to be dignified and brave, like I was before. It feels like a lifetime ago. I don't know who's dignified and brave anymore; so many have left because of this law.

"Mudblood—"

"I have a name," I snap angrily. I already have the word permanently carved into my forearm; why does he insist upon spitting it at me at every opportunity, as though his hatred can replace my identity?

"Did I ask you?"

"What happened to you, Malfoy?"

He glares at me, his grey eyes tempestuous as a stormy sea, and his angular face is contorted with anger. "It is none of your business. You are not my wife; you're a Ministry assigned partner. I don't care to engage you in conversation any more than absolutely necessary."

I decide I don't care enough to press the matter. The corridors are narrow and confining, winding to a spiral staircase. Door after door. Memory after memory. There are so many things that I want to tell him, to scream at him; I want to fix him, dig deep into his being until I find that singular kernel of intrinsic good that must be there, it _must_ exist somewhere. But the silence hangs in the air, sucking the oxygen right out of my lungs and I can't cry because I can't even breathe. He opens the door to a small bedroom, forest green walls, charcoal bedding on a single bed, silver tables and picture frames, Slytherin pendants.

"You can stay here for the time being. I'll let you know when I see you fit to share the same bedroom as me," he sneers. I repress a disgusted shudder as his eyes rake over me, full of judgment. In the back of my mind, I recall Fred's brilliant blue eyes burning into me with a fire I had never seen.

I turn away from him, grateful for my loose-fitting clothing. I've never been one for showiness. "Don't do me any favours, Malfoy," I snarl right back. I slam the door in his face and plunge myself into the green and silver emptiness. A portrait of a woman with grey eyes watches me.

* * *

_**Fred's POV**_

"Well, this is the place," I say awkwardly, opening the door of the flat above the shop. I had led her through the aisles of products, up the secluded staircase, but she had seemed disapproving and put-off as her dark brown eyes scanned our inventions, scrutiny on her face.

The flat is large and, with the help of Silencing and Locking Charms, privacy shouldn't be an issue at all. But the bright colour scheme and abundance of orange don't seem to change the odd look on her face. "You alright, Cho?"

She wrinkles her nose slightly. "Fine. It's just…don't you ever wonder what it would have been like for you to go into something more…academic?"

I raise an eyebrow and look down at her (she's a little more than a head shorter) but she is undeterred in her unsolicited judgment. I feel a twinge of annoyance, but I repress it. If I could handle these questions from Mum, I can handle them from some swotty Ravenclaw. There's no way she could be worse than Hermione used to be. "This is what I enjoy doing. Is there a problem?"

She presses her lips, outlined in a dark brown lipstick, into a thin line, reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. That right there is strike two: first she questions my passion, then she reassembles one of my ancient former professors. Already I'm reluctant to sleep with her.

* * *

A/N: It does cut off rather abruptly, but I didn't see much point writing anymore. Thank you guys for the favourites and follows, and a million thank yous for the reviews; writers adore feedback and con crit. You know, since we can't get paid for this. I'll have my next chapter up sometime between in the next hour and like five years from now.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I'm so sorry I haven't updated, I honestly am. I've been writing a lot of spoken word poetry (if you're unfamiliar with this concept, I wholeheartedly urge you to check out Andrea Gibson or Lauren Zuniga or any other slam poet on YouTube; it's an incredible, emotional, unbelievable form of writing.) So I've been a bit distracted by some original stuff, as well as by school, unfortunately.

Like I warned earlier, my updates will be a bit sporadic; I'm more likely to post five chapters in a day and then not update for two months than to write like a normal human being. Anyway, I apologise for the delays, and here is Chapter 7. Fair warning: Hermione's POV turned out fucking weird. I incorporated a couple of way, way back pureblood characters I encountered on HP wiki and I just…they're actually characters; I'll leave their links at the bottom. I'm going to be using a lot of these deceased purebloods throughout…well, you'll see. Enjoy!

* * *

_**Hermione's POV**_

The night seems unusually eerie; Malfoy Manor reminds me of the haunted mansions of my childhood lore, complete with bone-chilling frigidity and soul-shaking creepiness. I wonder how everyone's doing with their pairings. I couldn't help but watch Fred and Cho as they left the Burrow, awkward in each other's company, Fred bewildered and Cho almost disappointed. I could have sworn I saw her dark eyes turn down angrily at him.

I turn on my side, pulling the silky sheets and charcoal comforter over my shoulders, catching another glimpse of one of the two portraits hung up in this bedroom. The subject is a young woman with her narrow, pale, aristocratic features set in slumber. The stick-straight platinum hair hanging to her shoulders seems to accentuate the cruel sharpness of her high cheekbones and pointed nose. Every contour of her face screams Malfoy, and I wonder if every Malfoy is like a Malfoy, if perhaps I could find a single one able to accept me for the things I can't change.

The second picture frame on the opposite wall is empty, as though its subject couldn't even bear to be in a frame placed in the same room as me.

* * *

The morning comes with a sense of impending reality; for the first five seconds I expected to find myself asleep in the bedroom I shared with Ginny, but as soon as I open my eyes to dark green walls, I know with a sinking feeling that everything is real.

"Poor girl, marrying into this family," I hear a soft, creaking voice say. The words seem to float from their own soft tone. I sit up, confused, looking around for the source of the noise while trying to flatten my incorrigible hair.

"I highly doubt it was her choice. Look at her; does she look like the type Draco would fall for? I'm not saying she couldn't be a lovely girl, but you know the Malfoy men. Superficial brutes, I say," a second voice chimes in, stiffer than the first, though both sound quite old. It's matronly, motherly, almost like Molly's but with a sort of disapproving sniff.

"I suppose that's a good point, Misapinoa," the first voice replies. "Ooh, she's awake!" she exclaims, smiling an ancient-looking smile, crinkling her features even more.

"Isla!" the second woman hisses. "Let her breathe!"

Both women are elderly, far older than Molly. The one with the soft voice, Isla, has her head wrapped up in a dark coloured, elaborately patterned scarf, reminiscent of Professor Quirrel's turban, or a towel a girl might wrap around her hair after a shower to dry it, and I can see locks of grey hair falling out. The second woman, Misapinoa, has her white hair in a tight bun, accentuating her wrinkled yet sharp features. Their eyes are hauntingly grey, almost vacant from their paleness. Vaguely, I wonder where the young woman I saw the night before went. The second frame is still empty. The portraits around here must be in constant motion.

"I—I'm not quite sure what's going on," I admit in a small, quivering voice. I sit up but keep the comforter over myself, partially because the room is cold but also to hide the way my t-shirt hangs loosely over my shrunken frame.

"Well, why don't you start by introducing yourself?" suggests the grey haired woman in her kind voice. Her robes are velveteen-looking and a dark shade of brown, plain and modest.

"I'm Hermione Granger…have you heard of the marriage law that was passed?" They nod together. Portraits can move to the frame of any other portrait in the same building as well as visit their own portraits in other buildings. This is one of the reasons why news travels incredibly fast in the magical world.

"Well, I was assigned to marry Draco—"

"Yes, yes, we know, but tell us about _yourself_," the woman named Isla urges.

"I—I'm eighteen…a Gryffindor and a Muggleborn," I admit quietly, bracing myself to be yelled at by the typically self-righteous, prejudiced purebloods.

"Oh, really? I married a Muggle, you know," Isla tells me with a note of pride in her croaky voice. "That's why you'll never find my name on the Black family tree."

"You're a Black?"

"How rude of me!" she exclaims. "I'm Isla Hitchens, formerly Black, and this is my aunt, Misapinoa Blishwick, formerly Black. You'll see portraits of the entire Malfoy family around here, along with the Blacks, the LeStranges, along with some others."

I nod dumbly. Misapinoa continues where her niece left off. "Even the earliest of us, you know. I've been dead for around seventy-two years now," she says. The comment catches me off guard and I realise I've never truly acclimated to the strange meddling of time this world is capable of. I'm talking to someone who has been dead for seventy-two years, which means that this painting of her depicts her at around the age of one hundred.

"And—and you, Isla?"

She sighs heavily, her eyes glazing over in thought. "I lose track sometimes," she says wistfully. "I was born…1850, died when I was ninety-one, so…1941…I've been dead for fifty-seven years," she concludes with a sense of proud finality.

The haggard women smile at each other, then at me. I won't find peace with the living inhabitant of the Manor, but perhaps some of its deceased will be more tolerant.

* * *

_**Ginny's POV**_

Harry's still fast asleep when I wake up the next morning with a pervading sense of emptiness. I know it could be worse but something about this situation is so strangely awful; the woman I love is living in this very house, being forced to marry my brother while I am forced to marry one of my closest friends…it's like a child being made to sit in front of an endless stack of Chocolate Frogs, then being told not to so much as touch a single one.

Sure, they know I'm lesbian, but they don't have a clue about Luna and I, and I'm not sure how they would take it…my thoughts are muddled and discursive with the remnants of sleep. I'm grateful for the curtains drawn over the portraits as I make my way through the winding corridors with their unlit gas lamps and squeaking floorboards. I don't feel like being screeched at by two hundred year old Blacks, which reminds me: I wonder how Hermione's doing at Malfoy's. I cringe in vicarious disgust at the thought of Malfoy being within fifty feet of me, and the nausea is followed by a wave of fear for her sake. Malfoy can be an unsavoury character, but I hope he isn't directly violent toward her.

The house is silent. I sit at the head of the long table in the dining room, covered in a thin but building layer of dust. Kreacher has been relocated to Hogwarts, and no one has lived in the house for some months now. Not since Harry, Ron, and Hermione were forced out of it during the Hunt. I run a finger along the ancient wooden table, coating my fingertip in dust and remembering the Order meeting we eavesdropped on, how Sirius's voice kept a note of humour in it even when the topic got heavy, morbid, even. How Remus tried to make him more mature but only regressed in the process, the two of them becoming teenagers again, and Tonks caught in the middle with her longing for Remus and her endearing klutziness and her bright personality that matched her bubblegum hair.

When Harry finally wakes up I've lost track of time. My palms are covered in dust and all I can think of is who we've lost.

A/N: They're not OCs, seriously.

Misapinoa Blishwick (née Black): wiki/Misapinoa_Black

Isla Hitchens (née Black): wiki/Isla_Black


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I think this story is going to focus on Hermione's interactions with Fred, as well as her marriage to Draco, and Ginny's relationships with Harry and Luna, more than it will focus on the other pairings. I'll do segments on them from time to time but honestly, I'm not sure how well I'll be able to portray every person's POV and all the little details of their lives in this plotline and I don't know, man, fanfic gets tough sometimes.

Let me know if you have any suggestions, comments, concrit, etc. I'm always open to recommendations or requests, either for this current fic or for a one-shot, if you want me to try to write you one on the side when I have time.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Cho's POV**_

"No, we had a little door knocker that would ask a different riddle every time you wanted to get in," I tell Katie, who quirks a dark eyebrow.

"What if you couldn't answer it?" she wonders aloud as she piles her dark hair on top of her head messily. Her face is nice, albeit a bit plain, but her skin is clear and a smooth tannish colour, much more flattering than my pasty sort of paleness. She's the type of pretty that could turn into beautiful with a little work. I remember thinking the same thing when I saw Hermione Granger in DA meetings. I often wondered why she hadn't been sorted into Ravenclaw, or at least chose to be placed there.

I shrug. "Then you try to sort it out, or you wait for someone else to come along and get it right. That's how you learn, after all," I explain. Katie smiles, obviously amused, and starts to change out of her pyjamas and into a pair of jeans. Surprised, I look away out of instinctive politeness. At Hogwarts, Houses tend to hear a lot of rumours about other Houses and their respective members. I've always heard Gryffindors tend to be less self-conscious, less modest, more open. I can only remember changing clothes in the Quidditch locker rooms and in my dormitory, around a small group of people I had grown up with. Even losing my virginity in fifth year had been a modest, unlit affair. This simple gesture shocks me slightly, but Katie doesn't seem to notice as she pulls a pair of dark blue jeans over her leanly muscular legs.

"I heard you had to tap barrels to get into the Hufflepuff common room," she says idly, pulling her oversized t-shirt over her head. Vaguely, I wonder if the shirt is George's, but I doubt they would have consummated so soon, even if they are friends, and former teammates to boot.

My heart thuds with a dull shock of pain. Cedric told me that once. We were sitting outside the Great Lake, wrapped in layers of winter robes. I was wearing a jumper my mother had given me under my school robe, and occasionally I would catch snowflakes on my tongue. I knew I must have looked childish for a fifteen-year-old Ravenclaw, but I felt close enough to Cedric; I didn't think he would judge me for it. He looked on and smiled fondly at me, and I was grateful for the cold; he wouldn't be able to tell if I was blushing because I fancied him or because my face was freezing off.

"Yeah," I say, my voice sounding numb and off. "You have to tap the barrels in a certain order."

Katie turns abruptly and looks at me, eyes narrowed, scrutinising but not accusing. Her eyes widen noticeably as she seems to realise her mistake. _You've had more than enough time to get over this, _I tell myself sternly. _You have to let it go._

"I—I'm sorry, Cho," she says, her voice heartbreakingly soft. "I should have thought before I—"

"It's okay, I'm fine," I lie, sniffling slightly. _How can you get upset about this now?! You already betrayed his memory; what possible purpose could all this have anymore?_

Harry's kiss had been so endearingly awkward, so virginal that I felt impure being the one to kiss him first when Cedric still lingered in my mind. In that moment he didn't seem like the Boy Who Lived, or the undefeated wizard who faced the Dark Lord, or any of the confident, swaggering hero archetypes the magazines had made him out to be. He was just Harry Potter, awkward but well-meaning fourteen-year-old boy with a crush on a girl who wasn't half as good a person as he made her out to be. Within a few minutes he had gone from being an idol to being a person, a teenager, a _normal human being_; it was such a shock when we broke apart from each other and I realised that, for me at least, there would no longer be an idolising "The" in front of his name. It's strange to think that heroes are humans, too.

* * *

_**Harry's POV  
**_

"I don't suppose you can come over, Hermione?" Ron asks, his pointy elbow accidently poking me in the ribs. He's far too lanky to be crouching in front of the fireplace with me, Luna, and Ginny, but he insisted, so we let him attempt. I can't help but have a coughing fit every few sentences; the swirling soot makes my eyes water and chokes up my throat. I want to clean my glasses but at the same time, I'm afraid if I take them off my eyes will be bombarded with smoke.

"It's not a hostage situation, Harry," she says disapprovingly. "I _could_ come over. I'm just not sure it's entirely wise."

"You literally just said it's not a hostage situation," Ron says, mild irritation in his voice. "Just come over and have breakfast with us, for Merlin's sake."

She rolls her eyes and her face seems to revert to the way it was years ago, before the war when her teeth were too big for her mouth. It's hard to imagine such innocence anymore. She extends her hand to me and I take it, envelop it, pulling her through the emerald fire and thoroughly coating her clothes in a thick layer of ash. Muggle attire, a long sleeve and faded blue jeans, everything modest but pretty, casual but somehow professional and adult-like, very Hermione. A cloud of soot seems to follow her, but she sits down at the table, which is far too large and far too empty for a group of four, and laden with food made with the knowledge no one would be fully able to stomach it. We've been worried sick about her; at around 4 AM, Ron and I gave up on trying to sleep and simply resigned ourselves to sitting in the living room, eyeing the fire and debating Floo calling her.

"He hasn't been—" Ginny starts, her voice that harsh kind of caring I remember hearing on Molly sometimes.

Hermione's eyes widen. "No! No, Merlin, no. He won't even let me in the same room as him…it's degrading but it's still better than the alternative."

"But you'll have to eventually," Ron says, frowning slightly. I see that spark of protectiveness flicker in his bright blue eyes, that lingering hint of envy, of fancy.

"I'd prefer not to think about it," Hermione says in a soft voice. She folds her hands awkwardly by her plate, not touching any of the food nearby, occasionally pulling at the silver bracelet slowly, slowly releasing drops of diluted Amortentia into her veins. I wonder if it's working at all. I don't know if she noticed, but she's sitting in the space Tonks often sat in. "It's an unpleasant thing."

"Close your eyes and think of England?" Luna offers oddly, her misty eyes flickering around the room, as though straining to make out manifestations of her own vivid imagination. The corners of Hermione's mouth flicker upwards. The silence settles like the dust on the scratched wooden table. Ron absentmindedly runs a fingernail over the deep groove the twins made when they attempted to carry dinner by levitating the trays magically, accidentally sending a meat knife soaring through the air to land right between Sirius's fingers. Nearly three years ago, my godfather's palm rested on the very space where Ron's is now, and I think of how we never got to be a proper family, like he promised me.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Two chapters in one day, awwww yeeeaaaah.

* * *

_**George's POV  
**_The girls are off being girls. I don't know what exactly that entails, but it's probably something to do with hair, or makeup, or giggling. I lie down on the side of the bed Cho was on before she woke up. Fred and I used to sleep this way when one of us had nightmares, whether it was when we were six or when he finally woke up a few weeks after the war. I take his hand with its light gray scars, but he doesn't wake. The sheets are neat and untangled; of course they wouldn't have had sex so soon. Katie and I couldn't either. We sort of looked at each other from across the bed, sizing each other up, almost like rival Seekers on different House teams, and shook our heads no, almost laughing except for the nagging thought that one of these nights the answer would have to be yes. I remember our days as Quidditch teammates. There was a lot of flirting amongst the older members, a lot of joking, as we got into our fifth and sixth years, a lot of casual hook ups. Harry was left out of that loop for his own good; he was two years younger and had more important issues to deal with. Angie had a thing with Oliver, so did Katie, I remember, Alicia and Fred, sometimes, Angie and Fred, sometimes…I used to think of it like this: if one of us got sick, all of us but Harry would be screwed.

With regard to sex, I think I learned most of what I know from Katie, which makes this whole thing all the more awkward. I practised casting Silencing spells on my bed curtains for her, nearly got caught in the locker room with her, lost my virginity to her, sixth year, 1 AM, tired, frenzied, high on sleep deprivation, laughing in a tangle of sheets and limbs, I learned a cleaning charm for her, to get the little bloodstain of her purity out of my quilt. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was closer than most people realised. We settled down around seventh year, during Umbridge's reign of terror. Angelina and I grew closer, Katie and Oliver grew closer through owls and letters. We all needed something to hold onto. But now the expectation is higher. I'm not just supposed to just have sex with Katie like she's my close friend, I'm supposed to make love to her like she's my wife, because technically she is, and this isn't casual anymore and that's terrifying.

The skinny silver band sits around my wrist, dripping the watered-down love potion under my skin like some kind of IV. When Fred was recovering from the wall collapse we had to put him in a coma, he was in so much pain, so many bones to heal and regrow, skin to mend, tendons to reconnect. We practically had to put him back together like a jigsaw puzzle. Hermione had to treat him with some Muggle medicine along with the magical stuff. I nearly shoved her out of the way when she started pushing those tiny but menacing silver sticks under his skin, _needles_, she called them, hooked up to bags of fluid called _IVs. _I remember the word _intravenous_. It sounded evil, even when it rolled off Hermione's educated tongue. The liquid in the bag would drip through a clear plastic tube and then through the needle and into my twin's veins as I watched his still body for signs of life. I'm supposed to love Katie, like I've always been told to love whoever I marry, and I wonder if the Amortentia will make me love Angie less or if it will stretch me between the two of them. I'm supposed to have sex with Katie like we always used, in the days before I loved Angie, and now I can no longer cry her name.

* * *

_**Hermione's POV  
**_"It was…um…" I giggle, feeling a blush rising in my cheeks, burning my face. Or is that the Firewhiskey? My next shot sits in front of me, looking innocuous. The gas lamp fires flicker, glinting on the little glass.

"Come on, 'Mione," Ginny prompts, her voice giddy but somehow stable. She's surprisingly heavyweight. Occasionally I throw glances at Ron, waiting for an angry, jealous outburst, but he doesn't seem affected. He's laughing along with the rest of us, and I know it's not because he's on his way to drunk. It's because he finally realised we never did love each other to begin with, and now that that's off the table, we can go about our lives without worrying about upsetting the other. I was so scared when Harry slurred his way through the story of how he walked in on Fred and I; I thought Ron would be furious, but he seemed amused, albeit slightly taken aback.

"Go on, 'Mione, what was it like?" Harry presses, his lips pressing into a smug smile at my discomfort. I shift in my seat between Luna and Ginny on the raggedy couch in the living room of Number 12, where the heads of old house elves are still framed on plaques, to be taken down when we have the time to concentrate on remodeling.

I blush even more, waiting for my mind to solidify an answer through the Firewhiskey fog. "It was good. Nice…couldn't finish, but still…he was gentle," I finally confess, my face heating up. I take another shot, and the glass fills up automatically. The bottle in the middle of the table loses a bit of level. It's a nifty invention of the twins, these Self-Serve Shots. They were actually originally designed for Never Have I Ever, and the glasses were charmed to force their way into people's hands when they had done the thing. "What was your first like, Luna?"

"Hm?" her eyes drift in and out of focus. She doesn't need alcohol to be out of it. "It was pleasant," she says immediately. I admire her shamelessness, her obliviousness to social expectations. "Neville and I lost our virginities to each other in sixth year. Well, my sixth, his seventh. You know. But he was nice."

Sometimes, after the war, I would wake up in the grips of a nightmare, sweating out my memories in the pitch black of Ginny's tiny bedroom. Bellatrix, cackling maniacally, the madness crackling like lightning in the depths of her dark eyes, the blade of her dagger carving my arm, the scar burning my skin like Harry's used to on him. Sometimes when this would happen, I would slip into the twin's room where George would sleep facing his brother's bed, shrouded by cauldrons of potions, IV's, monitors with their reassuring beep confirming a heartbeat. I would trace my fingers over Fred's chest and arms, memorising the scars crisscrossing over his skin, learning his story without ever asking questions. Fleur told me she used to do this when she woke before Bill. It's a different kind of intimacy. George and I became more acquainted with Fred's newly-marred body than he did. When he finally woke up, I was running my fingers over the scars on his torso, able to draw the lines perfectly without even looking. I would look over on some of these nights and find Ginny's bed empty, even in the dead of night, and I would wonder where she would go at 2:30, 3 in the morning.

"Ginny?" I ask, my voice slurring slightly. "After—after the war…where would—would you go…really late at night? You know…"

"Yeah, I know," I hear her say. Her voice sounds a bit echoey, like we're in a cavern. "I—um…" Vaguely, I notice her and Luna exchanging uncomfortable looks. "I was with Luna," she says quietly.

The room is silent and awkward, so much so that it seems to sober me up a bit. I nod dumbly. "I—I didn't mean to…to intrude…it was p—personal, I shouldn't have…"

She holds her hand up. "It's fine."

* * *

_**Ron's POV**_

Hermione sways oddly, obviously not even close to sober. She collapses back on the couch, her head sinking into the cushions. Her shot glass refills itself, but she at least has enough sense left to set it on the table.

So my sister was sleeping with my mandatory wife…that's certainly an odd development. I look back and forth between the two of them, then to Harry, who looks absolutely befuddled. The strange thing is, I know that Harry loved Ginny. He still does. I look at him as if to say _just let them sleep together if they want to_. I don't know if it gets across. I don't care what Luna does, we'll probably just ignore each other for three years then split, but part of my mind is screaming _that's your sister, you dolt!_

I shake my head as if to disperse the thoughts. They're starting to bleed together anyway. "Stay here tonight," I tell Hermione. She lifts her head, her eyes half-closed. Harry cocks his head.

"I don't trust Malfoy."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I am so sorry about the delay, guys. I just got really bad writer's block and didn't know where to go with this. I'm going to try to be as reliable as possible with the updates from now on. I'm really sorry. In any case, the first part is kind of dark, and the second part has smut, so…watch out for that, I guess. It's kind of emotionally charged, and I'm not sure how I feel about how it turned out. Oh well. Here it is.

* * *

_**Hermione's POV**_

_Two months later…_

Tonight seems different. The walls of my room seem darker, the portrait frames are empty, and something isn't right, I just can't place my finger on it. I haven't seen any of my friends in person in nearly two months; with all of us working at the Ministry there hasn't been time yet. I've been panicked and terrified all morning; more news has arrived from the Ministry: starting in about a month, Ministry officials will be sent out to perform consummation checks, followed by pregnancy checks, to be repeated monthly until a pregnancy is confirmed. And once conception is achieved, the Ministry checks will continue each month to ensure that the foetus is developing normally. The consummation of the union has been the most unsavoury prospect, just the idea of sleeping with Malfoy makes my stomach turn; I haven't been able to eat much lately, but today I've been so sick I almost thought I was pregnant anyway. I've been trying to regain some weight, but to no avail; I'm just as stick-thin as I was at the very end of the Final Battle, and I'm disgusted by it.

I sit on the bed, a pot full of black ink next to me, and pen a letter to Ron. I do this to assure him that I'm okay, and to assure myself that there is someone out there that cares whether or not I am okay. I do this for both of the twins, for Harry, for Ginny, and sometimes for Luna. Work makes consistent visits increasingly difficult. My parents' absence weighs heavily on me, but I simply do not have the time or resources to locate them right now. Carefully, I sign my letter and leave all three pieces of parchment laid out on my nightstand to dry overnight. Somewhere downstairs, a door clicks unlocked and shuts with a resounding slam. Footsteps echo all around the Manor, empty save for me and Malfoy.

He probably wants to discuss this new pressure from the Ministry. I'm going to have to sleep with him. Well…what if I have sex with a different person, would that fool the Ministry checks? I snatch the torn, crumpled remains of the letter out of the draw of my nightstand and hastily scan the dull, dry language until I find the paragraph about the incantation: "…designed to detect the DNA of the woman's husband in any conceived zygote, embryo, or foetus. The specific incantation used _will_ notify the spellcaster of infidelity if it results in a pregnancy, which will void the conception. The woman may choice how to proceed with her child, however, if she does decide to give birth, it will not count as one of the two children she is expected to bear, regardless of whether or not it is magical, as its bloodline will become impure and its familial relation void." Sly bastards thought of nearly everything, didn't they? I roll the letter back into its crumpled ball form and cram it back into the drawer, sliding it shut angrily just as the bedroom door opens.

Malfoy enters, shutting the door behind himself as though someone else might interrupt, and leans against the wall with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He is dressed nicely, as usual, with black pants and shoes and a black collared, button down shirt. Extrinsically, with aristocratic features, stormy eyes, and platinum blonde hair, he's quite attractive. Intrinsically is an entirely different story. I've endured him only a little while over a month and he hasn't changed a bit. He's argumentative and temperamental, volatile and prejudiced, judgmental and insufferable. He picks fights with me over every little thing, refuses to speak to me unless we're rowing, and remains unbearably entitled. Little by little, though, he gets better. He doesn't call me Mudblood anymore, like that remnant of his father has been washed away. We mostly go about our own lives without acknowledging each other except to bicker. We make our own meals and eat them separately, sleep on our own schedules, work our own hours. I'm quickly ascending the Ministry hierarchy in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and I'm currently pressing my higher-ups to pass more legislation to improve the rights of house elves and other traditional subservient beings. Malfoy is working at St. Mungo's to become a Healer. Either the training itself is incredibly stressful, or being out in the Wizarding World with a name as reviled as _Malfoy_ is, because he comes home every night looking like he's been sobbing, in worse shape than he was during sixth year. It almost makes me feel bad for him. But not quite. Not after how he's treated me, no, I think he should experience it.

His eyes are cold steel and he does not acknowledge me in any way, simply leans against the closed door and waits, as though I've called him in myself to talk and he's waiting for me to initiate a conversation.

"Malfoy," I start, after several long moments. The air in the room feels like a frozen compress pressing into my being.

"Granger."

"Why are you here?"

"Just wanted to check in," he says tonelessly. My eyes go immediately to the silver band around his wrist, where his arms are crossed tightly. Poisoning him. Forcing him, little by little, drop by drop, to tolerate me. To hate me a little less. Maybe.

I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat. I was expecting disgust, or authority, or rage, but here we are, like he doesn't know what to do with this new development, like he had forgotten we'd have to consummate the union at some point, or forgotten how conception works or something. _When a crazy mommy slips a love potion into an unsuspecting daddy's drink…_my mother gave me books about this sort of thing; during the third and fourth years at Hogwarts, the task of sex ed falls on the head of the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey, who also utilised books far more than lectures to save everyone the embarrassment. She made sure we did our reading; she didn't want the responsibility and liability of teenage pregnancy to fall on her shoulders. Contraceptive potions were easily accessible and spells were taught early on. The extensive library was a great resource for that particular topic, the basics, the bare minimum of the biological function of reproduction, nothing pleasure, nothing love, just "this is how we keep our numbers up." And this is what this is, this passionless, reluctant union, how shameful and contaminated I am to taint the purity of the Malfoy offspring with my filthy blood in my filthy veins and no one wants to touch me, I can see it in his eyes, cold steel and his clenched jaw and flickering sneer.

"I want to know you," I say quietly, practically to myself. But he has come and gone, and I doubt he has heard me. I doubt it truly matters. Whether I know him or not, this is happening. And I don't know if knowing him will make it any more pleasant.

Later, as the whistling of the wind in the night stabs nostalgia through my chest, that unbearable longing for the Gryffindor dormitory and the warmth of the common room, I lie in the chilly sheets and wonder if even the most damaged people can be good somehow.

* * *

_Get me out__.__ Oh God and Merlin, get me out, before he does anything, before he—_

"Going somewhere, Mudblood?" Malfoy drawls, his trademark sneer plastered on his face, his eyes filled with cold amusement. I'm in a corridor of Malfoy Manor; it's like Hogwarts with its overabundance of winding corridors, each one nearly identical to the last. I'm lost in the labyrinth of torchlights and portrait frames, each oil paint face jeering, hissing, cackling, my ears are filled with a screeching cacophony of bone-chilling noises. Their angry eyes glaring at my disgrace, the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Zabinis, their aristocratic, arrogant faces, aquiline, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the rest that aren't blood traitors. The Rosiers and the Parkinsons and the Notts. Every hallways lined with paintbrush memories of the dead, every corpse edging Malfoy closer to me with serpentine voices, _Please!_

"Malfoy," I whisper, and I am so, _so _broken and cowardly, I can't find my wand on me and I will fight, but I know that I cannot succeed against him alone, not when I can barely budge my feet further down the hall, the doors are gone, my empty stomach turns somersaults in my abdomen, _Please, Merlin, don't__.__ Don't__._

And suddenly he's here, he's right here in front of me, his eyes boring into me, burning my skin, everywhere they sweep over my inadequacy, his palms are cold against my face, holding my head in place, _Look at me!_ _Look at my power, my power over you, how beautiful, what beautiful control, look at me! _as though I can hear his serpentine thoughts reverberating within my own head. My back hits the wall, hard against the jutting knobs of my spine, the dull thud shakes the picture frames from the wall and they fall back again, a legion of purebloods now carcasses with their gleaming silver eyes and their misguided pride and his hands tighten on my shoulders, I feel his fingernails through my shirt, _no__.__ No__._

The jeering eyes of the portraits lining the hallway, watching, their faces lighting up with sadistic anticipation, hatred and spite and I just want to tell them that sometimes I wish I was dead just as much as they do, right now there is nothing, nothing I wouldn't give to be dead. "Come, now, Mudblood," he says, his voice dripping with condescending cooperation, like he's talking to a misbehaving toddler. "I'd have thought you'd have accepted your place here by now. For the so-called 'Brightest Witch of Her Age,' you're acting quite daft."

_Stop, Merlin, just, please don't, please—_

"Granger!"

Everything is hazy and slow, and my vision blurs on the edges as I pry my eyes open. Someone's lit the room. "For fuck's sake," I hear the voice say again, muttering, half angry and half exhausted. Malfoy. The name pops into my head and I sit up stock-straight, scrambling away from him. He's leaning over me, boring holes into my skull, his grey eyes bloodshot and narrowed in annoyance. A glance toward the window tells me it's still nighttime; somehow I must have roused him awake.

"You were having a nightmare."

I remember. My heart is beating out of my chest, and the only thing keeping me from turning my wand on him is the fact that he doesn't have his on me. I don't say anything; why would he care to know that the jaded eyes of his pureblood predecessors have screamed for my end for two months?

"You woke me," he continues. His tone is flat, not angry, just emotionless. I don't apologise for anything. I'm not sorry, and I won't be, not even if he ever is. There's nothing for me to be sorry for. He stares at me a long moment, our eye contact charged with mingling anger and fear and something I can't place, and my face is an expressionless mask and his is as well and there is nothing to say right now. He stands and turns, walking out the door. He throws me a fleeting glance with an odd look and closes the door behind himself, plunging me back into unsettling darkness.

* * *

_**Cho's**__**POV**_

"Would you stop micromanaging me for one bloody day? Merlin, it's like living with my bloody mother all over again, but at least she could cook!" Fred shouts, slamming a frying pan down on the kitchen counter with a resounding clang. I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the countertop, glaring at him. I'm trying to help him make this place a bit more livable, and here he is being disrespectful when all I want is for him to hear me out for once. We must have had this argument four or five times a week for the past two months.

"I'm just saying, if you could contain your experiments to one area, and not do them in the bedroom, cleaning around here wouldn't take all bloody day and every spell in the goddamn book," I shoot back. There's no reason for him to be difficult, and after nine separate potions mishaps in the span of two weeks, resulting in such pleasantries as the living room floor freezing into an ice rink, a bathroom wall going up in flames, all the food in the fridge turning a nasty shade of green, and a couple other nearly impossible to properly reverse disasters, I'd really appreciate some more help from him in this arena. I don't hate him through and through; he has a decent sense of humour, and he's a nice enough human being, but after a particularly challenging afternoon of assisting him in draining out a full-blown kitchen flood after he somehow managed to rupture a pipe or something, I'm getting really sick of his disorganisation.

"And I'm just saying that I can take care of cleaning up the messes myself! You don't need to insist upon turning up with your self-righteous nose in the air to help set everything right again, then bitch and moan about the job being difficult and walk around acting like a bloody martyr about it all!"

"Well I wouldn't help you if you didn't actually need it, but as it happens, you and George don't always know what in the name of Merlin's dress robes you're doing, so someone has to step in! This is my home too, and I want to be able to actually come in the door without having to worry about some ill-fated attempt at a potion melting through the walls!"

He steps closer to me, imitating my stance with his heavily scarred arms crossed over his chest. Vaguely, it occurs to me that both of us are still soaked with water, and that my clothes are dripping on the tile of the floor I just helped him dry. I would have taken care of this earlier, but as soon as the flooding was under control, he set about nonchalantly making bacon and pretending nothing ever happened. His eyes are angry and fed-up, but then again, so are mine. I retrieve my wand from the opposite end of the counter and cast drying charms on myself before reluctantly doing the same for him and setting my wand away again. He glares at me steadfastly.

"How about you worry about your work, and I worry about mine? You have your own studies to attend to, I'll keep the shop running, and you can keep your controlling self out of the matters of home regulation?" he says, advancing on me. I stand my ground, against the countertop, still meeting his gaze with the same mild fury. "I know all this comes down to is you wanting me to get a 'real' job, Chang. But I want to make it very clear that I'm getting sick of you thinking you can tell me how to live my own bloody life, and I want you to stay the hell out of it, got that?"

"I'll start staying the hell out of it once it stops affecting my ability to live under the same roof as you, Weasley," I growl, surprised at my own defensiveness. I can feel his jagged breath on my face, feel his radiating body heat, and I wonder suddenly when he got this far into my personal space, but I'm afraid that walking away, putting distance between us, is only going to make me look like I'm giving up or cowering. I start to wonder about a lot of things. When I started swearing so much, when I started thinking of this flat as _mine_, or as _home._

"You'll start staying the hell out of it right now, because you're getting on my last nerve," he hisses, setting his hands on the counter on either side of me. Neither of us currently has a wand in hand, which is a mildly comforting consideration. _He's not going to hurt you, though. He wouldn't._

His face is mere inches from mine, his arms trapping me with my back against the counter, but I stand my ground. He's not scary anyway, with his battle scars and unkempt hair and bright eyes. _Get a hold of yourself! It's the bracelet; keep your mind on the argument at hand!_ He's impulsive and emotion-driven, there's no way I'm going to get through to him when he's angry, he's not thinking rationally now, if he ever was in the first place anyway. His face is rigid and his jaw is clenched tightly. He stares at me spitefully, eyes burning into mine, and in this moment I am angrier with him than I have ever been before, and my whole body feels like it's on fire.

"You've gotten on my last nerve already, Weasley," I snap.

His upper lip twitches oddly. "Listen, Chang, you're a good enough person beneath all that bitchiness and undeserved martyrdom but until you fix those things, I paid for this place and you're only going to get as much respect from me as I get from you." He inches forward until his breath washes over my ear and says in a harsh whisper, "So you'd better learn to respect me."

My retort catches in my throat. I am so goddamn angry with him right now, his disrespect and disorganisation and disregard for my wishes, but something in his vengeful expression tells me now isn't the time for this anymore. I haven't moved my eyes from his, even though the air around me feels charged with electricity and my heart is beating out of my chest. "Make m—" I try to hiss back, but his lips cut me off, abrupt but silently expected. _Don't, Cho, it's just the potion…but then, it's going to happen eventually, right? Now's as good a time as any. _I have no idea what I'm doing, why this is happening so quickly, so suddenly, except for the fact that it needs to, so it might as well.

His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head around, he is so unlike Cedric but I can't bring myself to stop him, truth be told I don't quite want to. His lips devour and mine fight back, meeting his fire with more, singeing the edges of his raging spite. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer until he presses against me, until I can feel his hips holding mine into place against the counter. One of his hands stays in my hair while the other runs under my shirt and deftly unhooks the back of my bra, leaving me to wonder where he learned to perform that so quickly. Hell, I can't unhook my own bra one-handed. I slip my arms through the straps and the garment falls to the tile floor, but I keep my shirt on. I can't be bothered to break from him to take it off, and apparently Fred doesn't care all too much because the same hand slips under my shirt, circling my hardened nipple and pulling a reluctant moan from me. I don't want him to know the effect of what he's doing to me; I'm too stubborn and proud, but he's making it hard to stop myself. His fingers clamp down on it and pull hard, and my eyes fly open in shock, the pain radiating through my body but mingling with pleasure. The fingertips resting on my scalp yank hard, pulling my head backwards, and his breath hits my ear again while his fingers work painfully on the other nipple, pebbling under his harsh ministrations. "Learning anything, Chang?"

I grit my teeth, too proud to answer him, but I press my hips against his, feeling the visceral need burning straight to my core, hoping he'll get on with it before I have to try to switch us. I start to unbutton my jeans, pulling the clothing away until I am pressed against the kitchen counter wearing nothing but my t-shirt and my blue and green underwear, the kind that's not particularly seductive or even slightly sexual but now is not the time to worry about it. He takes his hand out of my hair, leaving my scalp rather sore, and focuses instead on slipping a hand into my underwear, his fingers seeking out my clit, rubbing mercilessly until I'm grabbing onto his shoulders and shirt sleeves, tugging at the belt loops of his pants, unable to say anything, just moan his name and thank Merlin that George and Katie aren't here because I can't be arsed to cast silencing charms at the moment. I hear the sound a belt being undone and I marvel at his ability to do things one-handedly, and then I feel the air hit me as my underwear is lowered and I nearly cry at the loss of his fingers. My mind is scattered and I can't form coherent thoughts or sentences, all I can think about is the end goal of all of this, and I know it's approaching as his hands dig into my waist, lifting me up and setting me on the kitchen countertop, pushing my shoulders back carelessly until I'm flat on my back and my knees are hooked over his shoulders and I hear his belt hit the ground. His hands close around my breasts again, running over the flesh and tweaking my nipples, far less painfully this time.

And then suddenly he's there, pounding into me unceremoniously, and I feel some pain as I adjust to him but the pleasure overrides it as his fingers continue to tease my nipples and I start to rub my clit, my back arching off the counter to meet his fingers and my walls tightening around him. Eventually he removes his hands and grabs my hips, fingernails digging deeply into my skin, slamming into me viciously. He leans over me again, his body flattening against mine and kisses me forcefully, until I can't concentrate on that anymore and my mouth breaks away from his to fall into an "O" shape, filling the room with loud, wanton moaning and his strangled breathing until my vision goes black on the edges and my body shatters into a million little pieces and I feel him shooting deep inside me, like tiny fireworks lighting up my being from the inside out. He relinquishes his grip and steps away, casting cleaning charms for once and getting dressed again. I lie on the kitchen counter ineffectively, my thighs soaked, my shirt pulled up to expose my breasts, my arms sprawled out to the sides, my breath coming out in heaving pants. The room comes together again, my eyesight gradually refocusing. I sit up, my head still spinning, and pull my shirt down over my torso. Use my wand to clean my sticky skin, pull my underwear back up, put my pants back on. The thought strikes me that we've just consummated.

He looks at me awkwardly, like he doesn't quite know what to say after this. It changes things, doesn't it? I can tell he wants to make some thoughtless, obnoxious joke, but he's restraining himself. "I should head down to the shop," he tells me, his voice rather quiet. "See if George wants to switch with me."

I nod. I don't know what to say. I lean against the countertop, not yet trusting my knees to be steady enough to support my weight. "I'll see you tonight," he says. His eyes narrow, scrutinising my reaction, my silence. Suddenly, his arms wrap around me for a brief moment, the first physical contact we've had that wasn't angry or primal. I hug him back, but my mind is far from here. He turns and heads to the shop. I make my way to my bedroom. _My._ Our?

_It should have been Cedric. _

_It always should have been Cedric._


End file.
